That Story With the Stupid Plot
by Seaouryou
Summary: In which there is a dance, but very little dancing. Everyone is scared of Wendy, everyone loves Cartman, Stan is very much gay, Kyle is very much not gay, and Kenny very much wishes he were gay. Het, slash, and wannabe slash.
1. The Ridiculous Setup

I confess, I only wrote this story so that I could use the title. And this is a Stan/Kyle and Cartman/Wendy fic. What can I say, I like the pairings. It was going to be a one shot, but when I got up to 25 pages and wasn't done I said to myself, better break it up into chunks. So it'll be four chapters long.

--

--

--

During the middle of sixth grade, every single one of Wendy's girl friends stopping hanging out with her. They didn't do it for a spiteful, stupid reason, however. They did it for their own safety.

Because in sixth grade, Wendy became Eric Cartman's best friend.

Now, if anyone had told Wendy in fourth grade that in two years Cartman would be her closest friend, she would laughed herself into a coma. Cartman? The world's most spiteful, twisted human being? But it was true. They _were_ best friends. And though he still had Kyle, Stan, and Kenny, he steadfastly refused to admit they were his friends. She was the only person he would call that in public.

It had happened in drama class. Wendy was appointed stage manager, and Cartman became the curtain boy. This was something he complained about, very loudly, interrupting rehearsals, so she argued back just as loudly, and they both ended up in many detentions together. When the night of the play rolled around, their Antony fell off the stage, and their Cleopatra freaked out when they brought out the snake for the final act. If it hadn't been for Cartman's quick curtain pulling abilities, the play would have been a complete ruin.

Feeling strangely grateful, Wendy had started spending more time with him. She found he was surprisingly easy to get along with, once one stopped being offended by the things he said and the things he did. He was actually a rather amusing person, really. He did impressions that kept her in stitches, and he snarked like a pro.

The older they got, the better friends they became. They'd go down to the mall and not do anything all day, and she would still enjoy herself. Cartman would hover over the donation cans they kept at ever register, holding onto a twenty, not taking his fingers off of it, his face screwed up as if in deep consideration as he said, "Save a life, take a life? Save a life, take a life?..." and slid his twenty bucks in and out of the slot accordingly.

It was horrible. It was terrible. But the way he did it was _so funny_ that Wendy had to hold onto the counter to stop herself from falling over, she was laughing so hard. Eventually an irritable cashier would snap at him, and Cartman would give him an offended look, fold the money back up, and march away, saying that if they were going to be like _that_, he would take his business elsewhere. He would then add, "Who wants to help _that_ kid, anyway? He's only got one arm. What good is that? He can't work in a sweatshop and make my shoes if he only has _one arm._"

And there were benefits to having Cartman as a best friend, too. Having Cartman as an ally was a much sweeter deal than having Cartman as an enemy, after all. It meant he was on your side. It meant you were always guaranteed a seat in the getaway car.

Now, if anyone had told Wendy in fourth grade - or, hell, if they'd even told Wendy in sixth grade - that, come the summer before eleventh grade, she would develop a monstrous, all-consuming crush on her best friend, she would have put them in a coma. But it was true. Wendy had it _bad_ for Cartman, and therein lay the problem. Because Cartman didn't see her as date material. He just saw her as a friend. His _only_ friend, but still.

Wendy had resigned herself to suffering in silence, until it came time to plan the back-to-school dance, and Cartman dropped the biggest bomb of all: he had a date.

--

Kyle liked slutty girls.

It was, apparently, his 'type.' His first real girlfriend had been none other than Rebecca Cutswald, back in freshman year. They'd taken to making out rather nastily against his locker, which was a bother, because Stan was sharing one with him. Their hair, mixed together, was the fizziest mess he'd ever seen in his life. It was like Cousin Itt had been horribly betrayed by his conditioner. Stan feared reaching his hand into all that to put his books away, so he carried them all in his backpack, straining his back.

Kyle had laughed and prodded him and said, "You know what they say about back problems..." Stan had not found this amusing.

Luckily, Rebecca didn't last long. Kyle ultimately decided climbing trees to escape getting his ass kicked by Mark just wasn't worth it and broke up with her. She didn't seem too fazed by this, and the next morning she was pressed up against some other boy's locker.

Good riddance, Kyle said.

Kyle's next girlfriend was Bebe Stevens. They rather enthusiastically groped each other during lunch, then ate everyone else's food, because they'd all lost their appetites. It lasted even shorter than his relationship with Rebecca had, however, because Cartman ate lunch with Kyle, Stan, and Kenny, and Wendy ate lunch with Cartman, and the two girls didn't quite know what to say to each other.

Kyle's current girlfriend was Porschea, the ex-Raisin's girl. She was the dimmest so far, and never sat in a chair if Kyle's lap was available. She wore a hat just like Stan's, except hers was black, and didn't have a poofball, and... she'd continue on speaking like that forever if no one ever shut her up. Kyle always shut her up, however, in a manner that was both a relief to the ears and stomach-turning to watch.

Stan had a serious problem with Kyle's choice in women. After putting up with not using his locker and never eating lunch for years, he finally snapped one day and got into an argument with Kyle about it.

"God, do you really want a girlfriend you can't even have a discussion with?"

"Hey, that's not fair," Kyle said defensively. "Bebe's smart, she could have carried on a conversation if she wanted to. She just didn't want to."

"Doesn't it _bother_ you that the entirety of your relationship is sex?" Stan demanded.

"Oh, come on, man. Look, all that soul mate shit you're supposed to feel with chicks, I've already got that with you. The only void I need filled is the one my libido is creating."

Stan stared at him for a while, running completely out of steam. Then he finally said, "God, could you make that sound any gayer?"

"Who knows?" Kyle said. He seemed to take this as a personal challenge, because he slipped his arm around his back and tugged him into a one-armed hug, bumped hips, and said, "Aw, you know I love you best. But if you want my undivided attention, you're going to have to start putting out."

"Knock it off," Stan grumbled, and brushed him off.

Stan had to admit that he found Kyle's occasional, joking flirtations to be utterly confusing. Because Stan was gay, and Kyle knew this. Very, very gay. So gay his father and uncle took him on monthly hunting trips to try and wring some heterosexuality out of him. The only thing they exceeded in doing was giving him night terrors about killing bunnies, which made his boyfriend laugh at him for being a 'beetch.'

Christophe was a short, scruffy, angry, chain-smoking frenchman who occasionally broke into rabid spiels against God or the government, complete with frothing at the mouth. He was more commonly referred to as 'the Mole.'

Kyle didn't care for him.

"Gentlemen," Kenny said one Friday, sitting down at their lunch table. "And ladies," he added on second thought, nodding toward Wendy and Porschea. "I have a dilemma. I'm afraid there's something very wrong with me."

"I've been saying that for years," Cartman commented.

Kenny sighed tragically and illustrated his point with his hands. "I know that deep down I'm gay, but I just can't seem to stop having sex with women."

Kyle broke away from Porschea long enough to say, "Kenny, what the fuck?"

"Stan, where's that faggy boyfriend of yours?" Kenny went on. Stan arched an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know where Mole is. Why?"

"I'm going to get him to teach me how to be the best gay I can be."

"Kenny, seriously. What the fuck?" Kyle asked.

"Hey!" Kenny said, jamming a finger at him. "I can be queer if I want! Don't you try to oppress me!" He went back to addressing Stan. "I've got art class with him next. I'll ask him then."

And then he marched off determinedly.

"I'm starting to worry about Kenny's mental state," Kyle said.

"... Wendy, let's leave before they infect us, too, and you try to jump down Porschea's throat," Cartman said, standing.

"We've got to start organizing the back-to-school dance, anyway," Wendy said. "See you guys later," she added, nodding briefly toward Stan and Kyle before leaving with Cartman.

"Hey, dude," Kyle said enthusiastically, "my parents are going to be gone all weekend. Come over so we can harass pizza delivery men."

"Sure," Stan said. Kyle returned to his lip lock with Porschea while he looked on, frowning. Kyle had just invited his very openly gay friend to stay in an unsupervised house with him for two nights, and jammed his tongue down his slutty girlfriend's throat with the next breath. If that wasn't a mixed message, Stan didn't know what was.

--

Kenny walked determinedly up to Mole's desk. The Mole looked up, inclined an eyebrow, and then said, "Yes, Kenny?"

"I wanted to ask a favor, Mole," he said.

"What?"

"I want you to teach me to be gay."

The Mole stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, you're the gayest guy I know, and I need help."

"That's for sure," the Mole said. He blew out some smoke and said, "Non."

"What! Why not?"

"There's notheeng in eet for me. I don't do anytheeng for free."

Kenny scowled and placed his hands on his hips. "This is social class discrimination! Poor people can be gay too!"

The Mole rolled his eyes, which made Kenny scowl harder.

"And you have the fakest French accent I have ever heard. As if real French people talk 'like _thees_,'" he said, mimicking him. The Mole narrowed his eyes a little, and then the art teacher barked at them all to take their seats and start creating, God damn it, and how many times to I have to tell you to not smoke in my classroom, Mole?

Kenny resumed working on his current project, which was a detailed bird's-eye-view map of the mountains surrounding South Park. He'd gotten a good look at it, once, when a bird swooped down and carried him off. Instead of fighting the inevitable, Kenny relaxed and enjoyed the view until the bird lost its grip on him and he plummeted to the earth and exploded like a water balloon when he hit the ground.

He was eventually aware of someone's presence, hovering over his right shoulder. Kenny turned around and frowned at the Mole, who was staring very intently at the map he was drawing. "What?"

"That's a map of ze mountains."

"Yeah..." Kenny said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Eet must be identical," he went on, sounding amazed. "When did you see ze mountains?"

"Twelve. Bird. Long story."

"And you still remember eet?" he sounded incredulous.

Kenny shrugged. "Photographic memory. Which kinda really sucks, considering the things I've seen."

The Mole slid the map right out from under his arm and held it up, four inches from his nose, examining it with one eye closed. "... have you ever gone on reconnaissance beefore?"

"Sure," Kenny said. "Back when old people took over the town."

"I weell pretend that makes sense," the Mole said, handing him the map back. "I have to eenfiltrate a base this weekend. Eef you come along and draw the map, I weell geeve you 'gay lessons,' Kenny."

"All right!" Kenny said, punching the air. "Victory is mine!"

"Of course," the Mole added almost thoughtfully, "eet weell bee very dangerous, and you weell most likely die in the attempt."

"Not a problem," Kenny said enthusiastically, and the Mole gave him a confused look.

"What?"

"Oh, right - you've never seen it happen. I forgot."

"What?"

"Never mind," Kenny said, as the art teacher tackled the Mole and tried to wrestle the cigarette from his mouth.

--

"Okay, we can use the cheap streamers but take money for the expensive ones," Cartman said. "And, oh, we should tell people they have to wear jackets, and then have them hang the jackets up. And then if they want to get their jackets back, they have to pay the hanging fine, and we can pocket the money! God, I am the picture of brilliance."

"You are horrible, Eric," Wendy said, and snickered.

"Hey, I'll use the money to buy you something nice," Cartman promised. "After I get everything I want, of course. If there's any money left."

Wendy giggled and quickly stifled it. She didn't want to sound like a stupid girl with a crush around Cartman, even if that's what she was.

When Wendy first proposed they join the student council back in freshman year, Cartman had claimed it was the 'gayest thing ever' and refused. But then he'd found out just how much power the student council held over the student body, and he'd jumped at the chance to exploit it.

Now they were the ones in charge of organizing the back-to-school dance. Wendy decided to take the opportunity to take a subtle, on-the-surface-platonic stab at him.

"So, ah," she said smoothly, "dancing makes me wish I were in a wheelchair, but I suppose we'll have to go to this thing together to make sure you get your dirty money."

"Actually," Cartman said, "I'm going to the dance with Heidi. Looks like you're going to have to hold the coats ransom yourself."

Wendy froze and stared at him. "Heidi?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going with Heidi?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"You can't go with Heidi!"

Cartman gave her a quizzical look. "Why not?"

"Because... because... she has epileptic seizures!"

"Really? Cool," Cartman said. Wendy flinched. _That_ had backfired.

"She was born a man!"

"Oh, she was not."

"She doesn't shave her legs! Ever! You should see her in the locker room!"

"I'd _like_ to," Cartman said genuinely, a look on his face that said quite plainly it wasn't her hair he was thinking of. Wendy snarled.

"Wendy, quit foaming at the mouth," Cartman said, making a face at her. "You're getting it on my shirt. Serioushlay, I can't help it if the girls are after my hot body. If you're pissed because you don't have a date, just grab Kenny and say, 'EY, you poor piece of crap! You're taking me to the dance!' He's not nearly gay enough to turn you down."

Wendy crossed her arms and fumed. "I'm _not_ pissed."

"All right," Cartman said, and proceeded to ignore her. "Let's find out how much a DJ costs, take that amount from the class treasury, and then call up Skyler and have him do it for half the price."

--

TBC


	2. The Clichéd Love Triangles

I'll say right here and now that I've never really gotten the appeal to Christophe/Kyle. I mean, in the movie, it was _Stan's_ personal space he kept invading. But to each his own, I guess.

--

--

--

When Stan knocked on Kyle's front door after school, he had to stand on his porch for several minutes before Kyle finally opened it.

"Hey, man."

"Kyle... you look like shit," Stan gaped at him, tactful as ever. Kyle managed at half-smirk, looking amused, but he really did look awful. "What's wrong with you?"

"Heh..." Kyle said. "Kissing disease."

"... Oh my God _you have MONO?_ Grab your coat - no, don't move, I'll grab your coat - I'll drive you to the hospital!"

"Stan, Stan!" Kyle said, waving his hands in protest. "Relax. I was kidding. Sort of." He had to stop his explanation to cough into his hand. It sounded mucus-y. Which was both disgusting and distressing. "Porschea apparently had the flu last weekend. That's all. I'm rethinking my 'tune her out' policy, though."

He dissolved into another hacking cough that made Stan wince in sympathy. It was true irony that his best friend was chronically sick, when he himself couldn't stand hospitals or anything remotely related to them.

"Man, you should go back to bed," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning him around, steering him toward the stairs. Then he hesitated and looked at the hand that was gripping his shoulder. "Er. You're not contagious, are you?"

Kyle chuckled dryly. "Only if you french me." Stan frowned at the back of his neck and gave him a gentle shove up the stairs. He grabbed a thermometer from the bathroom, and when he walked into Kyle's room he found him in standing in his boxers, struggling to remove his shirt, which was tangled in his arms above his head. Stan yanked it off for him and frowned at him.

"What are you _doing?_"

"My clothes were all sweaty," Kyle said defensively. Stan shoved him manually into his bed and very nearly jammed the thermometer down his throat. Kyle made a face at him and talked around it. "Cut out my tongue, why don't you."

"Quiet," Stan said, watching his watch. After exactly four minutes he removed the thermometer and gaped at it.

"102.3!"

"You see?" Kyle said. "It's not so bad."

Stan gave him a distressed look. "Maybe I _should_ take you to the hospital."

"Stan, c'mon. Porschea didn't die, did she?"

"But-"

"Look, worse comes to worse, we'll just carve Cartman up like a Thanksgiving turkey and take whatever organs we need."

Stan made a face at him. "That's not funny."

Kyle started to laugh, but he had to stop very quickly because it made him start to cough again. At 6:00 Stan made Kyle soup, and at 6:14 Kyle ran to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet bowl.

"It was really good," Kyle tried to tell a morose Stan.

"Sure," Stan said dully.

"Really. I'm sure the toilet enjoyed it."

And then he had to stop talking, because his throat was swelling up and it was getting difficult to talk.

"You don't have to stay, you know," Kyle said Saturday afternoon, once he'd recovered enough to form coherent, yet stuffy, words. "I'm sure there're other things you'd rather being doing this weekend... or people."

"No," Stan said, seated on the edge of his bed. He took the thermometer away from him and checked it, and Kyle rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow. "Anyway, Mole took Kenny off on reconnaissance, or something, so I wouldn't be able to spend the time with him even if I wanted to."

Kyle was silent for a little while, and Stan almost thought he fell asleep again.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What?" Stan asked.

"That a guy who, apparently, very desperately wants to be gay is spending time with your boyfriend."

"Oh," Stan said, looking at his feet. "No, not really. I've been... sort of thinking about breaking up with the Mole, anyway."

Kyle shifted around in his bed until he'd raised his head enough so that he could look at Stan through one eye, at least. "How come?"

"The usual reasons," Stan said shrugging. He let his gaze travel from his socks to Kyle's face. "... And, for a while now, there's sort of been... someone else."

"... Huh," Kyle said, letting his head drop back into his pillow. "Hey, could you go heat up some of the soup? I think I can keep it down now."

Stan frowned as he stood up, left the room, and headed down the stairs. He thought their conversation over carefully while he got the soup out of the refrigerator and reheated it on the stove, and by the time he was heading back up the stairs with a tray, he'd made a decision.

"Oh, excellent," Kyle said with muffled enthusiasm. He made a valiant effort to sit up; Stan pulled his pillow out and rearranged it for him, and then handed Kyle the soup while he leaned against the headboard. Kyle began gratefully downing it. Within moments it was gone and Stan took the bowl for him. He stood there while Kyle slouched back down under his blanket, pulling his pillow down with him.

"Kyle?"

"Mm-hm?" Kyle asked, rearranging the covers more comfortably around himself and getting situated.

"Everyone knows I'm gay."

"Yeah," Kyle said, laughing. "You're loud and proud."

Stan frowned. "My point is, if you invite me to spend the weekend at your house, everyone's going to think we're fucking."

"So why don't we?" Kyle asked drowsily, wrapping his arms around his pillow and burying his face in it.

Stan stared at him. "... Because you're straight."

"Oh, yeah, huh?" Kyle said, and then he dozed off.

--

"Your fever's gone down," Stan said, looking up from the thermometer. "I think you're getting better."

"You know what would make me feel a lot better?" Kyle asked brightly, propped up against his headboard. "A skimpy nurse costume."

"I'm not putting a skirt on for you, jackass," Stan said flatly.

"Fine, if you don't want to be the Naughty Nurse, you can be the Naked Nurse that comes to deliver the injection and-"

"No."

"Selfish asshole," Kyle said, crossing his arms.

"You're definitely feeling better," Stan said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. Kyle was back to his joke-flirting.

"Well, if you're not going to indulge my kinks, I could always use some TV," Kyle suggested.

"I'm not carrying that big-ass TV up the stairs for you, Kyle."

Kyle stretched his arms out toward him. It took Stan a moment of staring dumbly to realize what he wanted.

"I'm not carrying _you_ DOWN the stairs, either!"

"Hmph," Kyle said, letting his arms drop and pouting. The doorbell rang and Stan got up to answer it, glad for the excuse to leave the room. He blinked in surprise when he opened the door.

"Wendy?"

"Hi, Stan," she said with a sigh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I knew you'd be over here. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, taking a step back to allow her entrance. She walked in with her hands in her pocket, and took one slow look around the room before bowing her head and sitting down on the couch. Stan stood by the door until she made a face at him.

"Aren't you going to sit down next to me and ask me what's troubling me?" she demanded.

"Oh, right," Stan said, sitting down. "Um. What's-?"

"Oh, it's awful!" she cried, burying her face in her hands. "I have a crush on Cartman and if that weren't bad enough he's taking _Heidi_ to the dance and, God, I can't _lose_ him to her! Cartman's my best friend! What am I going to do?"

"Beats me," Stan said. She lifted her face and scowled at him.

"God damn it, you're gay! You're supposed to be able to give me relationship advice!"

"Um, sorry?" Stan said.

There was a scuffing of feet, and Kyle appeared at the top of the stares, squinting down at them.

"... Wendy? Thought it was you."

"God, Kyle, you look awful," she said.

"He's getting better," Stan said optimistically.

"Kyle," Wendy said, placing her hands on her hips, "how do _you_ think I should get rid of Heidi?"

"Have you tried killing her?" Kyle asked. "Nothing solves a problem like violence."

"Now there's an idea," Wendy said, rubbing her chin.

"I lied," Stan said, panicking. "He isn't better. He's delirious. Don't listen to him!"

"Relax, Stan, I was just kidding," she said, sweeping a hand through her hair. "Now, on a completely unrelated note, can I borrow your baseball bat?"

--

Heidi worked at the orange smoothie cart in the mall. Wendy stood out in the parking lot and waited for her to finish her shift, the baseball bat leaning against the brick wall next to her.

As she stood there she thought over her situation. Wendy could remember the exact moment she realized she liked Cartman in _that_ way.

She had been blessed with the natural ability to cook. Any food, prepared under her hands, was a delicacy. Her parents were delighted. Her home ec teacher was thrilled. She was thoroughly pissed off. She wanted a talent that would help her become a _senator_, not a housewife.

Wendy had managed to keep this talent a secret from Cartman for, oh, about half a day. It was very hard to keep a secret from Cartman, after all. When he'd found out he'd dragged her into his kitchen and refused to let her leave until she made him something, so she'd made some mac and cheese just to shut him.

He'd moaned like a whore getting gang-banged while he ate it. "Oh _God_," he said. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around." He'd paused and considered his next words carefully. "When I take over the world, you can have New Zealand."

"What! I don't want New Zealand."

"Everyone wants New Zealand!"

"No one even knew it existed until _Lord of the Rings_ came out," she'd said in a dismissive tone. "I want Egypt."

"You can't have Egypt! That's where I'm putting the Jews!"

"Egypt or I've never cook for you again," she had said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. Cartman had visibly struggled for a moment, than made a face at her.

"Fine, you cruel, selfish bitch. _Have_ Egypt."

And then she'd just _realized_ it. Sitting there in his kitchen and joking about how they would divide up the world (at least, she had been joking, he'd probably meant every word), him sucking the last of the mac and cheese off his fork, she'd just looked at him and _known_ she was in love with that selfish, horrible boy.

She didn't want Heidi to have him, she thought, reaching out and giving the handle of the bat a squeeze. She didn't want anyone to have him but _her_. But...

Wendy chewed on her bottom lip as she remembered the smug, almost-happy look on Cartman's face when he'd told her he had a _date_. Cartman was the only one of the foursome that had never had one - even Kenny, who had repulsed girls in the past with his very open desire to screw them and leave them and now apparently wanted to be gay, had dated his fair share.

Her hand uncurled around the bat with a muffled, frustrated sob, and she pressed them to her face instead. Could she really be so _selfish?_ Could she really destroy this chance for Cartman, her best and - frankly - only friend? The person who'd talked her out of being in trouble with school administrators and the cops more times than she could count? The person who'd told her she could be queen of Egypt, but only if she got her bitch ass back in the kitchen and made him some pie?

Heidi walked through the doors to the mall and breezed right past her, not noticing her at all. Wendy peeked between her fingers at the other girl as she walked to her car and dug through her purse, looking for her keys. Wendy rolled her tongue around her teeth, and then she pushed off of the wall and headed towards her, grabbing the bat as she went.

Heidi had just stuck her key into the lock when Wendy swung the bat, shattering the glass in the back driver-side window. Heidi screamed and jumped back, dropping her keys. She clasped a hand over her heart and gaped at her, then scowled.

"Wendy! What the FUCK are you doing!"

"I _was_ going to deliver some bat justice, but... I can't do that to Eric. He actually likes you, I think. So, just... stay away from the quadruple-stuffed Oreos. The Oreos are _ours_, bitch."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"You're going to the back-to-school dance with Eric," Wendy said.

"What does that have to do with _anything_... oh..." she started to laughed. Wendy scowled at her.

"What's so funny?"

"You think I _like_ that fatass? All us girls had a bet going on who would end up together in the season finale of _White Trash_, and the girl who lost had to take Cartman to the dance."

Wendy stared at her. "That's... that's why you asked him?"

"God, the evening is going to suck," Heidi said, making a face. "I can't believe I had to turn down Kevin for _Cartman_. My friends are such bitches for making me stick to the bet."

"You sure are bitches," she growled. "How could you _do_ that to him?"

Heidi made a face at her. "What's the big deal? It's just Cartman."

"_Just_ Cartman," Wendy repeated, staring at her.

Later, she would claim that her hands tightened their grip on the bat _all by themselves_, and, really, could she be held responsible for involuntary muscle spasms?

--

"Wendy, what the hell! You put Heidi in the _hospital?_ Now she won't be able to go to the dance with me!"

Wendy tried to not look pleased. She just didn't try very hard. Cartman scowled at her.

"Wendy, I am so for seriously! They won't even let me go see her because they said it would be counterproductive to the healing process!"

"Heidi's a whore, Eric," Wendy complained.

"So?" he demanded angrily. "She was my _date!_ God damn it, Wendy, why would you screw me over like this? I thought we were... friends."

Wendy glared at her feet. "Maybe I don't want to be your _friend_, okay, Eric!"

He looked stunned a moment, and then his face quickly twisted into a sneer, as rage was a much more acceptable emotion than confused hurt. "Well, fine, bitch! Fuck you too! I never liked you anyway!" And then he stormed away.

--

"Hey, man," Kyle said, clapping Stan on the back as he sat down at the lunch table. "Thanks for taking care of me over the weekend."

"Sure," Stan said. He blinked. "Where's your lap trophy - uh, I mean, Porschea?"

"She's waiting for me behind the smoker's bleachers."

"What - like a _dog?_"

"Dude, let her wait. I just wanted to show my gratitude." He grinned at him. "I'm going to make up for that crappy weekend with a gift. What would you say if I said I was going to take you to see a sweaty testosterone-laden struggle between men in mock-able uniforms?"

Stan stared at him. "... You're going to take me to see some bad gay porn?"

"What? No! A wrestling match!" Kyle dropped the ticket into Stan's hand and clapped him on the back again. "You and me, tomorrow night," he said, and then he swung his legs over the lunch bench and waltzed off to the bleachers.

"Don't you hate wrestling?" Kenny asked casually, sucking the last of his soda through his straw.

"It won't be that bad," Stan mused, looking down at the ticket. Across the quad, the Mole started toward their table.

The Mole was not looking forward to this: telling his boyfriend he'd accidentally killed one of his friends. It seemed like the sort of thing one would withhold sex for. And, really, he'd liked Kenny. He wasn't like Stan's fat friend, who'd killed him when he was eight and never apologized, or Stan's whorish friend, who was trying to steal his boyfriend from him. Death wasn't the sort of thing that fazed the Mole, but he felt a little bad that Kenny had had to go.

When he first dragged him down to the compound, explaining - between blasphemy - how they were going to break in, he'd noticed the poor kid giving him an amused look and demanded what was so funny. Kenny'd grinned and said he wondered why it was always the short ones that were filled with so much rage.

He'd not been amused - he wasn't _short_, everyone else was just abnormally tall - and had just about written Kenneth off as another of Stan's bitch friends. But Kenny kept on joking with him the entire evening that he'd somehow managed to win him over.

It was when they'd sat outside the door, waiting for the changing of the guards, and Kenny had leaned over to ask him what what the deal with the cigarettes, anyway? ("Oral fixation," and Kenny had cracked up) that a sudden blast of gunfire had ripped his body to shreds. The Mole had hightailed it out of there without the map he'd came for, something he'd caught hell for from his employer.

The Mole ran over the situation, trying to figure out how to break it to Stan. "Hey, bitch, I got your friend killed," probably wouldn't go over to well. Stan was sort of... well, a bitch.

But as he approached Stan's usual lunch table his pace gradually slowed until he came to a dead halt. Sitting there, eating a sandwich as if he hadn't a care in the world, was Kenny McCormick. The Mole blinked several times in rapid succession, that hit himself over the head and looked again. No, that was definitely the same boy he'd left in a very permanent state of dead Saturday night.

The Mole started walking again and came to a stop next to Kenny. "You."

"Oh, hey Mole," Kenny said, looking up. Stan was apparently too fixated with a little piece of paper to notice his boyfriend, but then, the Mole was too fixated on Kenny to notice him.

"You. C'mere," he ordered, grabbing Kenny and dragging him across the quad. He stopped under a more secluded tree, and then he turned to face Kenny and began poking and prodding him.

"What's wrong with you?" Kenny asked. "You smoke some Colombian cigarettes, or something?" he knocked the Mole's jabbing finger away from his chest. "Or - oh, are you pissed because I didn't draw the map for you? Sorry 'bout that."

"Forget about ze map!" the Mole cried, throwing his hands up in complete confusion and exasperation. "You- dead- alive- how?" he said, trying very brokenly to form a sentence.

Kenny arched an eyebrow at him and starched the side of his head, apparently trying to figure out what had set the Mole off this time. "Oh... that's right, you've never seen me die before. I keep forgetting." He cracked a grin. "Woah, I've never had someone freak out this since my first grade teacher. But she was a student teacher. Weak. Like putty in Cartman's hands." He inclined his head curiously. "Why are you freaking out, anyway? It happens."

The Mole just stared at him for a while. What was he supposed to say - "I thought I was the only one"?

Instead he said, "Come over to my house after school; I'll geeve you gay lessons."

"Your house?" Kenny said hesitantly. "I mean... no offense, but when Stan went over there he came back all traumatized. Kyle had to rub his back and make him breathe into a paper bag."

"Stan has a weak stomach," the Mole said. Kenny still looked hesitant and he said, "It wouldn't _kill_ you."

"Don't be so sure. It doesn't take a lot to kill me."

"Do you want the lessons?" the Mole inquired, and Kenny nodded vigorously. "All right," he said, jotting down his address on a slip of paper and handing it to him. "Memorize that, then eat the evidence. Tell no one where you're going."

"You're sort of a freak, aren't you," Kenny asked, amused. "I can appreciate that."

"I'll see you after school, then," he said and turned to go.

"Oh, hold on," Kenny said. "Tomorrow's better; Kyle and Stan are going to some wrestling match."

The Mole frowned at him. "Stan doesn't like wrestling."

"Yeah, but he likes Kyle more than he doesn't like wrestling. Er," he said immediately, remembering this was actually Stan's boyfriend. "I mean. In a super best friends sort of way."

The Mole shrugged one shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

--

TBC


	3. The Predictable Plot Devices

Um... I sure hope none of you are taking this story seriously, cause... I'm not. I thought the chapter titles would be a tip-off. XD This is really more of a parody.

Also! The hired killer from _Follow That Egg_ was far too awesome of a character to NOT reuse him. And all will be resolved next chapter, don't you worry.

--

--

--

Stan watched with a detached interest as the wrestler dressed up as Peter Pan kicked the wrestler dressed up as Michael Jackson in the throat. Tonight, they were fighting for the right to never grow up. Trust Kyle to drag him to the weirdest shit imaginable. He'd just seen a pirate ninja sucker punch a cowboy, and the next match was going to be between God-only-knows.

Kyle'd disappeared to get some refreshments nearly twenty minutes ago, and Stan was leaning as far over in his seat that he could to avoid being crushed by the hairy forearm of the man next to him. Why had he bothered to come here, again? He'd already spent a weekend fighting with Kyle to get his temperature. Between burning his thumb making soup and having his life threatened by an imposing elbow, he was running the risk of having _too_ much fun. He ought to pace himself.

Of course, Stan was asking himself this rhetorically. He knew _exactly_ why he was here. It was for the same reason that it bothered him so much that Kyle seemed to think it was endlessly amusing to joke about their relationship - that Kyle thought the idea of them together was laughable.

"Enjoying yourself?" Kyle called brightly, not apologizing to the other spectators as he crawled over their knees to get back to his seat. Stan glanced at him as he collapsed next to him with a contented sigh, then passed him a soda. "Sorry it took so long; you wouldn't fucking _believe_ that line. What is it about sports that makes everyone want to eat? Are they trying to compensate for the calories the athletes are burning?"

"You're calling wrestlers athletes?" Stan questioned. "Bit of a stretch, don't you think?" He took the drink Kyle handed him and took a sip, then made a face. "Ugh - this is root beer."

"Sorry, that's mine," Kyle said, taking it back and switching cups with him. Stan watched as he slurped a generous gulp from the straw, and beat back his pang of straw-envy. _Don't get pathetic, Marsh_.

"So," Kyle said, with the air of one who was reopening a discussion, "Enjoying yourself?"

"Oh yeah," Stan said, only a little sarcastically. "You know how I love cage matches."

Kyle made a face at him. "C'mon, man, I know you don't like wrestling."

Stan blinked at him. "Eh?"

"I've known you for nearly fifteen years. I'd like to imagine I know a little about your likes and dislikes," Kyle huffed.

"O...kay," Stan said, trying to work this out in his head. "So then why'd you invite me to something you know I don't like?"

"I thought you'd get a kick out of costume night," Kyle said, pouting. "No one points out human stupidity like you do."

Kyle grinned at him and he finally grinned back, and they began snarking about the wrestlers. And Stan found he _was_ enjoying himself - though he suspected that was because of the magical ability of Kyle's presence that always made him enjoy himself, no matter what they were doing together, and not the badly choreographed wrestling.

The only problem was that a hairy elbow was still occupying his seat. Stan had to lean farther and farther over into Kyle to avoid it, and then without warning the elbow swung out and quite predictably knocked him right into Kyle's lap. The lid popped off his soda and doused Kyle in the face, and Kyle blinked rapidly, looking at Stan stupidly. Stan looked back just as stupidly.

He glanced down Stan's hand, which was gripping his inner thigh like it had been stapled there, and then he looked back up and arched an eyebrow at him. Stan very quickly jumped off of Kyle, snatching his hand away as if it had been burned and turning a lovely red color. He'd always been rather proud of his self-restraint, too - he'd never 'accidentally' felt Kyle up, no matter how tempting it was. Or how many, many chances he'd gotten to do it.

When Stan had jumped back into his seat, however, he's knocked into The Elbow. This had resulted in the owner of The Elbow to choke on the hot dog he'd been just about to take a bit of. He whirled around to glare at Stan, after a self-induced Heimlich maneuver, and shouted, "You just made me choke on my meat! Apologize!"

"Er," Stan said, who would have found that incredibly amusing and broken into hysterical, immature laughter, if not for the simple fact that the man who'd just said that looked like he could kill him by sitting on him. "I'm sor-"

"Like hell he's going to apologize! It was your fault!" Kyle barked at him. Stan twisted around and gave him a horrified look.

"Ooo, a tough guy, huh?" The man with The Elbow said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. "You want me to _make_ you apologize?"

Kyle, being short and Jewish, was not very intimidating. He apparently decided the best way to combat the other man's height was to stand on his chair. He did so. "Bring it, bitch!"

"Kyle what the HELL are you doing!" Stan cried.

"You can't let people push you around, Stan, Jesus."

"You're going to get your ass handed to you!"

"What, don't you have any confidence in me? I'm insulted."

Elbow Man advanced, and Kyle leapt from his chair and, employing what could only be referred to as 'Jew Kung Fu,' planted his foot in the other man's face.

They proceeded to roll around in the stands, throwing punches and, in Kyle's case, biting. The surrounding spectators turned away from the wrestling match to watch because, really, it was far more entertaining.

"Kyle!" Stan shouted, very nearly ripping his hair in exasperation. He noticed security making their way toward them and, deciding he really didn't want to have to bail Kyle out of wrestler-jail, he dove forward, grabbed Kyle by one of his failing ankles, and dragged him off of the guy.

"Hey!" Kyle said indignantly, glaring up at him from the floor. Stan dropped his foot and seized him by the wrists instead, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him out of there.

Kyle stopped struggling after about a block or so. Stan let go of his hands somewhat reluctantly, and was a little startled when Kyle promptly threw his arm around his shoulders and leaned his weight on him.

"I think," Kyle said very seriously, "I might be a little drunk."

"_Might?_"

"Yeah, that's the thing. I haven't had anything alcoholic to drink."

They puzzled over this in silence for a little while, and then Kyle said, "I missed this, you know."

"Making an ass out of yourself and getting socked by large hairy men?"

"No, smartass. Hanging out. Just the two of us. We're always busy with other people now, and I keep fucking up the time we _do_ have together," Kyle said mournfully. He glanced up at him and said, smiling briefly, "I miss you."

Stan gaped at him and fumbled for a response that was neither a callous brush-off nor a screaming declaration of love.

He settled with, "Me too."

--

Kenny looked at the number on the mailbox, then he fished the paper out of his pocket and checked it to make sure he'd gotten it right. He'd ended up not eating the paper like the Mole had wanted.

But now he was starting to doubt that the Mole had written down the right address. Because this house looked so... normal. The way Stan had gone on about it, he'd expected an alligator pit or something. It was an average house, nestled between two other average houses, on an average street. A old lady was taking her dog for a walk, and a big man with bigger sunglasses was watering his yard without a shirt on.

The door swung open and the Mole scowled at him from the doorway. "Oh, hey Mole," he said cheerfully, smoothly slipping the paper back into his pocket so he didn't know it hadn't been digested. He didn't want to witness one of the Mole's famous freak-outs, after all.

"Don't say my name so loudly!" The Mole hissed at him. "You came alone? Were you followed?"

"Who would follow me?" Kenny asked, bemused. The Mole strode forward, seized him by the wrists, and dragged him back into the house, where he promptly locked the door and checked through the blinds for... something. Kenny really had no idea what the Mole thought was out to get him, unless he thought that little old lady out there walking her poodle had some sort of sinister intent.

"Why are all your lights turned off?" he asked curiously, looking around the dark room. "Parents forget to pay the electric bill? Been there."

The Mole, who'd apparently been convinced the little old lady wasn't plotting his demise, stepped away from the window and shook his head. "Ambiance."

"Ambiance?"

"Yes, ambiance," the Mole confirmed. "You're stepping into unknown territory, i.e., your desire to peetch for the other team, which ez represented by the unknown territory of my house. It's all very dark and mysterious."

"Really."

"It's a breelliant literary technique."

"Sounds pretty heavy-handed, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

Kenny shrugged. "Do you have food?" he asked, making his way toward the kitchen. The Mole hurried after him. "I haven't eaten in-... Who's that?" Kenny asked, coming to a dead halt as he stared at the man bent over the stove.

"Zat's-"

"Jacartha!" the man barked, whirling around to face them in his army boots and frilly pink apron. "The greatest killer the world has ever seen!"

"-my father," the Mole finished with a sigh.

"Wow," Kenny said. "That answers nearly as many questions as it raises."

"He hasn't been the same since he got hired to keell this egg." They both watched as he cracked eggs into the pan and whisked it, crackling evilly. "Let's go upstairs," the Mole suggested a little wearily. His father was a bit of an embarrassment.

"But I'm hungry," Kenny complained. The Mole made an exasperated noise.

"Fine, here," he said, grabbing the first thing he saw, stuffing it into the other boy's hands, and dragged him up the stairs. It wasn't until the Mole closed the door to his bedroom and locked it that Kenny had enough time to read the box.

"... Cake mix?" He glanced at the Mole. "I don't suppose you're going to unlock the door and let me go back downstairs and get something else?"

The Mole looked at him like _he_ was the crazy one. "After I secured ze perimeter?"

"That'd be a 'no,' huh," Kenny said. He shrugged, opened the box, and began eating the cake mix by the handful. "Okay, tell me how to seduce a dude. Just, uh, don't tell me any specifics of your and Stan's relationship. I don't really want that particular mental image."

"You didn't draw ze map," the Mole said matter-of-factly, stepping away from the door. Kenny frowned a little at him.

"I already apologized. Not that it was really my fault."

The Mole shook his head. "I don't care about ze map. But I agreed to geeve you gay lessons in exchange for sometheeng. And now I want-"

"You're not going to make me give you a hand job, are you?" Kenny asked, his eyes widening a little. "Or - oh, you want me to go down on you, right? _That's_ why you locked the door."

The Mole was, for once in his life, driven completely speechless. Then he finally blinked. "... Non."

"No?"

"_Non_," he said more firmly, making a face at him. "I _have_ a _boyfriend_."

"... Oh," Kenny said, having the decently to look abashed, "right. I mean, obviously. Uh. Sorry. That was a really stupid thing for me to assume." He tipped his head back, knocking some cake mix straight into his mouth. "I mean, of course you aren't looking to cheat on Stan. So, uh, what did you want?"

The Mole was momentarily tempted to say, 'I want you to keep that Jewish manslut off of my boyfriend,' but he'd always known Kyle was nonnegotiable when it came to Stan. Were he ever to give Stan an ultimatum, his own ass would be the one kicked to the curb.

"I just want to know more about zese deaths ov yours."

"Why does my dying interest you so much, anyway?" Kenny asked, casually reclining on his bed.

"I've died before, too."

Kenny fell off of the bed.

"Woah, wait, WHAT?" he said, dragging himself off of the floor and staring at him, his hair doused with cake mix. "Seriously?" The Mole nodded. "Seriously. Wow. Shit, WOW. I never thought..." He stood up and reclaimed a seat on the bed. "How many times?"

"Just once."

"_Just_ once?" Kenny repeated, looking a little disappointed. "Well... still. Jesus. How did it happen?"

"I was hopeeng you could tell me," the Mole said, scrutinizing him. For eight years it had been haunting him - not his death, that hadn't really fazed him, and not seeing hell, that had sort of been a let down - but just not knowing _how_ he'd come back. He wanted to know. Hell, he _needed_ to know. It was driving him crazy.

... Well, his father probably had a hand in his current mental state as well.

"No, I didn't mean how'd you come back - how'd you die?"

"Oh," the Mole said. "Guard dogs."

Kenny whistled. "Ouch. Yeah, mauling hurts like a _bitch_. I've gotten mauled a good... fourteen times, I think."

The Mole frowned at him. "You're not sure?"

"It all sort of blends together after the two-hundredth time," Kenny said, retrieving the box of cake mix from the floor. "I couldn't keep track if I wanted to."

"'_Ow_ does it 'appen?" the Mole demanded, because he'd _always_ wanted to know, and... Kenny shrugged.

"Hell if I know."

"You don't know," the Mole said flatly, staring at him.

"Nope."

"You're not even _curious?_"

"Nope."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then the Mole let out a low, slow groan and gripped his forehead.

"I 'ave a headache."

"But you're still going to give me gay lessons, right?" Kenny asked hopefully.

"Just... ugh. Fine," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Who were you planning on seducing?"

"Butters."

The Mole frowned at him. "Butters is straight."

"He tap dances. He can't be _that _straight."

The Mole rolled his eyes and made an exasperated noise. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a trait he had picked up from Stan. He suddenly understood why Stan did it so often. "Fine... well... you've apparently had plenty of experience seducing women. Just do the same to him."

"That's _it?_ That's all you're going to give me?" Kenny huffed.

"_You_ gave _me_ a migraine. I think it's a more-than-fair exchange."

--

Clyde was one of the rare few people that didn't _completely_ hate Cartman.

In the summer before seventh grade, Cartman, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny had all been split up for the first time. Cartman sent her letters from Lil' Dictator's Camp, keeping her updated, and expressing his bemusement that as big a crybaby as Clyde had also been sent there as well.

(In addition to the letters, he had sent her many a macaroni and glitter and glue homage to Hitler. Wendy had hung them up on the fridge just for the look on her mother's face. He had also, apparently, been sending them to Kyle, who'd been shipped off to Jew Camp. Kyle, reportedly, burned them all.)

When Cartman took over the camp and ruled with an iron fist, he'd turned Clyde into his errand boy. When the authorities finally broke through the walls and infiltrated Cartman's war room, he'd blamed the entire thing on Clyde and gotten off scott-free. When he got back home, he'd told her that Clyde was a 'pussy crybaby with no spine.' The fact that Clyde had not ratted him out, however, seemed to win him some points with Cartman, and Cartman treated him halfway decent most of the time.

Like right now, Wendy thought, as she tried to burn a hole through Clyde's head with her eyes from across the room.

Cartman had gone to the principal, cited creative differences, thrown down a little blackmail, and gotten him to switch the student council around so that he was organizing the dance with Clyde instead of Wendy. She'd been reduced to keeping track of who'd bought tickets, and it was her job to weed out the people who would inevitably show up at the door with photocopied ones.

She wished fire and brimstone on Clyde every time Cartman said something amusing and he laughed. Supplying Cartman's laugh track was _her_ job. Chastising him for his evil plots while doing nothing to stop him and then laughing when they fell apart or succeeded was HER job!

When Cartman got up to yell at the only Mexican student in the school to go get him a soda, Clyde stood up and made his way over to Wendy. Wendy immediately bent over her ticket receipts and pretended she hadn't been staring at them unblinkingly for the past two hours.

"Hey, Wendy?" Clyde said, standing over her table. Wendy looked up and gave him a look that, she felt, properly conveyed her general desire for him to be thrown into a wood chipper, feet-first.

Clyde didn't take the hint and sat down next to her. "I wanted to ask you something about Cartman."

She inclined an eyebrow at him, and his gaze dropped to his hands. He picked at his fingernails and took a deep breath. "Cause... you know him best... and guys with girls as friends are pretty much all... you know..." he glanced around the room to make sure Cartman hadn't snuck back in, but they could still him outside the door, shouting that he didn't care if Pedro was a citizen, he'd find a way to deport him.

Clyde licked his lips and leaned in, lowering his voice. "Do you think I'd have a shot with him?"

Wendy gaped at him. Then Wendy burst into maniacal laughter, because her brain had, finally, broken.

--

TBC


	4. The Half Assed Ending

Ike rules. To the max.

And the Mole is murder on my spell check.

--

--

--

"Hey, Mole," Kenny called, making his way toward the smoker's bleachers. The goths threw him hopeful looks, which he ignored. The goth kids had been hounding Kenny to join their group for years, ever since they'd found out he knew all about hell. They wanted to grill him for answers.

The Mole looked up and frowned a little when he saw Kenny, bunching up his shoulders. Kenny leaned against the back of the bleachers next to him.

"I'm sorry I gave you a migraine," he said sincerely. "I just... I dunno. No one's ever really cared about my deaths before, least of all me. I mean, my brother and sister kind of watch their backs because they're half-convinced it's genetic, but that's really it."

The Mole was silent for a while, then he unbunched (which is most _definitely_ a word!) himself and reached into his pocket. Kenny looked on curiously, and he pulled out a carton of cigarettes and offered him one. He took it, after a moment's consideration, and asked, "So are we cool?"

"The offering ov the cigarette ez supposed to signify my acceptance of your apology/explanation," the Mole sighed. "You know, it really ruins eet when I 'ave to explain eet."

"Sorry," Kenny said, grinning a little. "Got a light?"

He removed his cigarette from his mouth and lit it for him. "I don't 'ave a lighter," he explained when Kenny cocked at eyebrow at him. "I always just light my next cigarette on the last one."

Kenny took a grateful inhale while one of the goths shouted, "Ey! You said you didn't have any spare cigarettes!"

"Cry me a river, beetches," the Mole said flippantly while Kenny snickered a little. The Mole frowned a little at him. "What?"

"It's just the goths. They amuse me."

"They _amuse_ you?"

"Yeah. I dunno how to explain it. I mean, my life is pretty shitty by the general standards, but I just think listening to them bitch about how much pain they're in because their parents didn't buy them a pony is funny as hell."

"We can hear you, you know," on of the goths called irritably.

"You know what I hate most about hell?" Kenny said out of the blue, and all the goths shut up and looked at him hopefully.

"... The eternal torture?" the Mole guessed.

"The little trinket shops."

The goths growled in frustration. The apparent leader of them threw down his cigarette. "Let's go," he informed the group, "they're just fucking with us."

The marched off in a very sullen, anti-conformist straight line. Kenny snickered again and the Mole cracked a smile. He had to admit it was rather amusing.

"Are there really treenket stores?" he asked, and Kenny nodded.

"They sell bobble-heads and snow globes and shit. Didn't you see them?"

"I wasn't zere for very long," the Mole explained. "All I saw was ze park with ze 'Please Do Not Walk On The Grass' signs and ze luau."

"The luaus are fun," Kenny said enthusiastically.

"Princess Diana was trying to hump ze punch bowl."

Kenny burst out laughing. He gripped his sides and doubled over, he was laughing so hard. "Oh man," he said, wiping a away a tear and grinning up at the Mole. "See, this is awesome. I could never talk to anyone about hell before - except Damien, that is, but I don't talk to him if I can avoid it. He's an emotard."

"Never met Damien."

"God, count yourself blessed." Kenny continued grinning at him, and after a moment, the Mole smiled back slowly.

"... 'ave you tried to hit on Butters yet?"

"Hm?" Kenny said, straightening up and leaned back against the bleachers. "No, not yet."

"'Ow do you even know 'im?" he asked curiously.

"You remember the summer before seventh grade, when you went to that activist camp and met up with Stan?"

"Of course."

"Well, that summer pretty much everyone got shipped off to camp. Cartman went to Lil' Dictator's Camp, Kyle's parents made him go to some Jewish thing, and I got sent to band camp because it was the cheapest, even though I don't play an instrument." Kenny shrugged. "So now I'm stuck in the class. Butters plays the triangle," he added, in an FYI sort of way.

The Mole arched an eyebrow at him. "You're in band class, and you don't play an instrument?"

"Yep."

"... This is such a stupid town," the Mole said. Kenny smirked.

"That's what Stan always says," he said, somewhat amused. "How many of his traits _have_ you picked up?"

"A few," he said casually. "Why do you want to seduce Butters?"

"I figured he'd be the easiest guy to talk over to the other side of the fence," he explained. "I'm new at this, after all."

"That's the only reason."

"Mm-hm."

"You are a bit of a whore," the Mole said, flicking his cigarette onto the ground and grinding it out with the toe of his standard-issue military boots. "Here; practice on me."

"Really?" Kenny asked brightly. "Thanks." He slide up to the Mole and inched his arm around his shoulder until it was resting on the middle of his chest where, were he a girl, Kenny would have been quite efficiently groping his breasts. "Hey baby," he purred, flashing teeth and pulling the Mole back into his body. "Even if a million monkeys sat in front of typewriters for eternity, they would never be able to type enough words to describe how hot that ass of yours is."

The Mole gave him a 'You're-got-to-be-kidding-me' sort of look. Kenny's cheesy grin faded. "No?"

"You actually used that on girls?" the Mole asked, shaking his head. "How often did you get kicked in the nuts?"

"Only a few... dozen... times," Kenny said, shifting his gaze to a trash can.

The Mole sighed and shook him off. "Here." The Mole turned around to face him. "First back him up against a wall," he said, placing his hands on either side of Kenny's head and stepped forward, invading his personal space.

"Right," Kenny said, looking as if he would be writing notes if he had a piece of paper with him, "Then what? Should I say 'Those are nice pants; they'd look even nicer in a wad on my bedroom floor-'"

"Don't say anything," the Mole groaned. "Especially not those bad pickup lines. Just do this," he said, moving his hands so that one arm curled around Kenny's back and pulled his body away from the bleachers, into him. His other hand cupped Kenny's face, absently stroking the corner of his mouth and chin before letting his hand drop and curl around the junction of his neck and shoulder. He pulled him down a little, and then stopped when he noticed Kenny was trying very hard not to laugh.

"What?" he asked, vaguely annoyed.

"Sorry," said, covering his mouth with his hand to try and stifle his snickers. "It's just... You're, like, a foot shorter than me... it's hard to take you seriously."

The Mole socked him in the shoulder, hard. Kenny yelped in pain and rubbed his arm. "That hurt!"

"Don't be a pussy."

Kenny grumbled for a moment, then a slow grin broke out on his face.

"Now what?"

"I just noticed something." The Mole sighed and waited for him to continue. "You haven't spoken in a french accent for the past fifteen minutes, at least."

The Mole stared a moment. "... Eet ez your eemageenation," he said thickly.

"_Sure _it is," Kenny said. He rubbed his arm once more and said thoughtfully, "Do you really think that'll work on Butters?"

"Worked on Stan. But zen, he was already gay."

"Oh, dude," he said, making a face at him. "I told you I didn't want specifics. And what makes you so sure Butters is straight, anyway?"

"Gaydar."

"Bullshit."

Kenny put his cigarette out against the bleachers and grew suddenly serious.

"That was a gay lesson, wasn't it."

"And you're a lousy student."

"No, I mean..." Kenny frowned at him. "I never gave you anything in exchange for it."

The Mole shrugged. "All I want to know ez 'ow eet 'appened."

"Hmm," Kenny said, looking pensively at his tattered tennis shoes.

--

When Stan got home from school, Shelly hollered at him that one of his stupid friends kept calling, and if he didn't find out what the hell he wanted, she'd rip the phone out of the wall and beat him with it.

Almost immediately after she finished threatening him, the phone rang again. Stan took the call up to his room, where Kenny immediately began interrogating him about the Mole. Mostly, he just wanted to demand to know why Stan had never thought to mention that, oh yeah, his boyfriend had died before.

Stan finally just gave Kenny the entire La Resistance story, and then Kenny's line got really quiet.

"You still there, Kenny?" Stan asked after nearly a minute of complete silence. His attention was then drawn to his window, which was having rocks chucked at it. He walked over and opened it up, and got beamed in the read by one of them.

"... I've got to call you back, Kenny," Stan growled into the phone and clicked it off, massaging his forehead and glaring down at Kyle.

"Sorry!" Kyle called up. "Didn't expect you to open the window."

"Kyle, why can't you use a door like a normal person?" Stan demanded, rubbing his temple.

"I _tried_. Your sister punched me in the face."

"Oh," Stan said. "Sorry. What did you want, anyway?"

"Come on down, man, let's go to the back-to-school dance."

Stan made a face at him. "I don't dance, Kyle."

Kyle gave him a bemused look. "But you're gay."

Stan scowled and moved back to shut the window.

"Okay, okay!" Kyle called up. "Sorry, Jesus. But c'mon, it's not like anyone actually dances at school dances."

He frowned a little. "So what's the point of going?"

"So that you can go with me," Kyle said brightly. He grinned at him, and Stan immediately caved in, as per usual when it came to Kyle.

"All right," he mumbled. "Let me change."

He met Kyle at the front door and they walked toward the school. Kyle hummed absently for a while, then said out of the blue, "I figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"How I got drunk at the wrestling match. I was drinking root beer."

"But root beer isn't alcoholic."

"But it's South Park."

Stan had to concede the point.

Kyle pulled out two tickets at the door, but they'd no sooner stepped inside the gym that Porschea materialized, grabbed Kyle, and dragged him away. Stan watched him go, scowling a little, but he couldn't say he was surprised. He should have seen that coming.

He made his way to the left wall of the gym and sat down next to the punch bowl, deciding to drown his sorrows in Kool Aid. _This really is rather pathetic_, Stan chastised himself. He really ought to stop going to stupid things like this, just because Kyle wanted him too.

Of course, he knew he wasn't _going_ to stop. Just that he should. Just like how he knew he wasn't _going_ to stop crushing on his straight best friend, even though he should.

Over on the other side of the room, standing watch over the coats, Wendy was feeling equally miserable. Except Wendy, unlike Stan, was also severely pissed off, and wanted to inflict her misery on a certain Clyde Donovan.

Even though he was now dateless, Cartman had decided to go to the dance anyway. He was standing off to the side with Clyde, insulting girls' dresses and guys' dance moves, and Wendy's hackles raised every time Clyde laughed flirtatiously. As she watched, Cartman imitated Jimmy dancing, and Clyde snickered.

Wendy maliciously doused Clyde's coat with fruit punch.

When Cartman did his impersonation of Timmy, Wendy found she couldn't stop herself from abandoning the coat table and marching over to the pair of them. Cartman scowled immediately when he saw her, which made her heart twist in a particularly painful manner, so she avoided looking at him. She stared Clyde straight in the eye instead.

"Clyde, come dance with me."

"I'd really rather not-"

"I wasn't _asking_," she said, grabbing his arms, digging her nails into his sleeves, and dragging him onto the dance floor. She seized one of his hands in hers, placed her other on his shoulder, and proceeded to lead.

"Clyde," she hissed, leaning in closer to whisper into his ear, "if you don't stay the hell away from Cartman, I will fuck you up _So. Bad_. I will make you cry your motherfucking eyes out."

"Wh-what?" Clyde choked, sounding terrified.

"Did I _stutter?_" Wendy hissed, stomping down on his foot as they spun around the dance floor. Cartman, back where they left him, grit his teeth as he watched her lean in and murmur into Clyde's ear. His hands involuntarily closed into fists, which meant his right hand crumpled the paper cup it had been holding, spilling punch over his hand. Growling, he turned around and stomped off, out of the gym, throwing the cup down as he went. He didn't turn around and he didn't come back, so he never saw Clyde flee from Wendy's grasp when the song ended, making small, fearful noises as he went.

At yet another corner of the gym, Kyle was trying to squirm out of his girlfriend's grip so that he could go talk to Stan. Porschea, however, would not be so easily brushed off. She clung to his arm and pouted, looking over at the black-haired boy sitting alone by the punch bowl. "You love him more than me, don't you?"

"Oh, come on. Don't make me answer that question."

Porschea bristled. "Well if you love him so much, why don't you marry him!" she shouted, gaining the attention of the entire gym.

Kyle looked around, noted that everyone was staring at him, decided things couldn't possibly get worse, then decided to hell with it, of course they could, and shouted back, "Because I'm holding out for a rich, lonely ninety-year-old man with no inheritance-grubbing grandchildren that can't get it up!"

"Ugh!" she cried, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "You can just go over to your _boyfriend_ and screw him for all I care!"

"Fine, maybe I will!" Kyle said, walking backwards toward where Stan was seated and jabbing his index fingers at her. "He'd be better at it than you, bitch!"

Stan, by this time, had his face buried in his hands. He waited until Kyle came to a stop behind him, and then he said, "Do you have to break up with _all_ your girlfriends like that?"

"My heart was just trampled," Kyle informed him in an authoritative voice, not sounding trampled in the least. "I'm vulnerable. Hold me." He wrapped his arms around Stan and buried his face in his neck, effectively pinning Stan's arms to his sides, rendering him helpless. Stan tried to squirm free, to no avail. Kyle was short and skinny, but he had a grip like a bear trap. Once he got his hands on you, the only way to escape was to gnaw a body part off.

Stan put up a token resistance and then slumped, resigned, while Kyle rubbed his face into his neck.

"Seriously, Kyle," he grumbled. "It was bad enough that your last words to Bebe were 'Stan's ass is hotter than your rack, anyway!'."

Kyle sniggered a little at the memory, then murmured, "They're just jealous," into his throat.

Stan tried to twist his head in a way so that he could look at Kyle. This proved impossible, because Kyle's forehead was pressed up underneath his jawbone, and Stan ended up with a nose full of Kyle's Jewfro. "... Jealous?" he repeated quietly. "Of what?"

"Ya'know, Stan, _I'm_ supposed to be the oblivious one."

"What do you me-"

"Stan?"

Stan gaped at the Mole, who'd wandered over for a refreshing beverage of artificially flavored fruit punch, and instead found his boyfriend in the arms of another man. Kyle turned his face away from Stan's neck to look at him, but he didn't release Stan from his grip. The Mole stared dumbly at them for a while, then his eyebrows drew down.

"You told me you weren't coming to ze dance."

"W-well," Stan said, fully aware of how wrong this looked from the Mole's point of view. "I _wasn't_, but-"

"Forget eet, Stan," he said cooly, turned around, and left the gym.

--

Kenny was just approaching the gym as the door slammed open and none other than the Mole came storming out. Kenny blinked a few times, marveling at his luck, and hurried over, "Hey, Mole!"

The Mole looked up and noticed him. "I'm glad I caught you, man, I need to tell you something-" Kenny was cut off and nearly all the breath was knocked out of his lungs when the Mole came storming over and threw his arms around his neck in something that was more like a strangulation than a hug. Given how much shorter the Mole was than him, his back bent as he was dragged down.

Kenny really wasn't expecting that, because... the Mole wasn't the hugging type. He was more the grab-you-and-shake-you-while-calling-you-a-cock-sucking-asshole type. So Kenny blinked, alarmed and somewhat concerned, and was about to ask him what the hell was going on when he happened to look past him and saw Stan and Kyle leave the gym.

"... Erm," he said hesitantly, placed a tentative hand on the Mole's back. "It's okay, man. Just let it out."

The Mole stiffened and pulled his head back so that he could look him in the face, though he didn't loosen his grip on his neck. He arched an eyebrow at him, and Kenny saw that his eyes were completely dry.

"I'm not _cryeeng_," he said irritably, sounding insulted. "I'm _pissed off._"

Kenny gaped at him. "Hey, wait a minute! You were just putting me in a headlock so that I couldn't flee when you broke into one of your rabid spiels!"

"'Ow astute," the Mole said. "And I didn't even 'ave to explain myself zis time."

Kenny tried to twist free, but the Mole locked his wrist behind his elbow and trapped him in. "'E eesn't even gay! I'm being passed up for a 'etero! What ze fuck ees so great about zat Jewish beetch?" he demanded.

"Um," Kenny said helpfully.

"'E's short and scrawny and 'e 'as seriously issues with anger management and 'e's always beetching about something!" the Mole snarled. Kenny paused and gave this some thought.

"... You know," he said thoughtfully (hence the giving it some thought), "Kyle's actually a lot like you."

The Mole stared at him, blinked, then scowled. "Is ZAT why 'e was dating me?" he raged. "Oh, zose sons ov BEETCHES!"

"I'm sure that's not why Stan was dating you," Kenny soothed. "I'm sure he fell for your-" Kenny tried hard not to laugh "-authentic french accent."

He frowned at him and removed his arms from the other boy's neck, taking a step back and looking annoyed. "Zat fucking faggot God," the Mole growled. "Breenging me back to life just so I 'ave to deal with this sheet."

"Um, actually," Kenny coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I need to talk to you about that."

The Mole inclined an eyebrow. "What?"

"Well, I felt kinda bad that I wasn't able to tell you how I come back to life," Kenny said, digging his hands into his pockets and looking down at him. "So I did a little digging, and... I still don't know how _I_ come back to life, but I know why you did. Damn, man, if you'd mentioned that you died during the American/Canadian war I'd have been able to tell you when you first asked."

The Mole's lips slowly parted as this sunk in. All thoughts of Stan and Kyle were instantly thrown from his mind. "You... know? You can tell me?"

"Yeah," he said. "It was because of me, dude. Satan asked me what I wanted for helping him out of a bad relationship, and I asked him to make everything go back to the way it was before the war, so..." Kenny shrugged.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and then the Mole looked Kenny up and down skeptically. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"I'm alive because of _you?_"

"Yeah," he said. "Crazy coincidence, huh?" Kenny smiled and him. "So now we're square for the gay lessons."

"... Hm," the Mole said. "Why do you want to bee gay so badly, anyway?"

"I enjoy straight sex too much."

The Mole gave him a blank look. "... What."

"I always die right before I come," Kenny explained. "Which freaks the fuck out of the chick, and is really fucking sexually frustrating."

"... I can eemagine," the Mole said, staring at him. "Le petit mort, huh?"

"Le what?"

"The little death. Orgasm. Eet's french."

"Oh," Kenny said. "Cool. Got any other little french phrases?"

"Well," the Mole said, coughed, and looked up at the sky. "I don't actually _speak_ french..."

Kenny burst out laughing. "Knew it!" he wheezed out, hugging his abdomen with one arm and pointing the other at the Mole. "I _knew_ it!"

--

Stan and Kyle left the dance almost immediately after the Mole. Stan accompanied Kyle to his house, scowling lightly at the ground. Neither one of them said anything until they got to Kyle's front porch, at which point Kyle smirked, turned around, and said, "Am I going to get a kiss goodnight?"

Stan glared at him. "Cut it out, Kyle."

Kyle's smirk was replaced with a light scowl. "What're you so pissy about?"

"God damn it, don't you _get_ it?" Stan growled, pressing a fist against the side of his head. "I'm going to lose my boyfriend because you can't stop fooling around! Just cut it the fuck out, Kyle!" He started to yell. After so many years of dealing with Kyle flirting and not meaning it, Stan was finally fed up with it. "It's not funny when you pretend to hit on me, it's just fucking annoying, so _stop it!_"

He stopped and saw that Kyle was glaring at him, his teeth clenched, his left hand stretched out behind him and gripping the door knob.

"Who ever said I was joking, asshole?" Kyle demanded, wrenched the door open, and slammed it closed in his face.

Stan was left standing on his front porch, feeling particularly stupid.

--

As Kenny walked toward the smokers' bleachers during lunch, he slowed down and came to a stop when he noticed Stan next to the Mole. The two were apparently in a very heated conversation. Kenny hung back until Stan finally walked away, then he approached the Mole cautiously.

"You want to put me into another headlock and rant?" he asked.

"Non. EEt eesn't necessary," the Mole muttered, offering him a cigarette. They smoked in silence for a while, and then the Mole asked, "'Ow did it go with Butters?"

"He rode me like a horse."

"Really," the Mole said, deadpan, raising an eyebrow skeptically. Kenny sighed and his shoulders slumped.

"Yeah. Literally. We played horsie. He even wore a cowboy hat." Kenny sighed and massaged his forehead. "I swear, that kid wouldn't know a gay come-on if it walked up and slapped him on the ass... I know, because I _did_ walk up and slap him on the ass."

The Mole let out a little snort of laughter.

--

"That bitch!"

Kyle sighed. It really sucked that he and Cartman were the only ones eating lunch together.

"That fucking bitch! First she screws me out of my date, then she makes it so that Clyde - my BEST lackey! - runs screaming in the opposite direction every time he sees me! I should have _known_ that whore was just waiting for the perfect chance to fuck me over! _This_ is what happens when you trust people-"

"CARTMAN WOULD YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Kyle burst out, slamming his sandwich down. Not that slamming a sandwich makes much noise, or anything. "ISN'T IT FUCKING OBVIOUS TO YOU THAT SHE HAS A CRUSH ON YOU?"

Cartman stared at Kyle. "... What?"

"Believe me," Kyle growled, picking at his bread. "I know a crush when I see it."

Cartman didn't say anything else. He just sat there, looking a little stunned.

--

After school, Stan pounded on the Broflovski's door until Ike opened it. "Oh," he said. "Hi, Stan."

"Is Kyle home?"

"He paid me ten dollars to tell you he wasn't."

Stan sighed. "I'll give you twenty if you let me in."

Ike grinned and held out his hand eagerly. Stan fished his pocket out of his pocket, removed the bill, and handed it over. Ike pocketed it cheerfully and stepped back, allowing him entrance. Stan made his way up the stairs and opened the door to Kyle's room without knocking.

"Ike, how many times to I have to tell you to stay out of my-" Kyle broke off when he looked up from where he was lying on his bed and scowled. "How'd you get in here?"

"Your brother really conforms to those Jewish stereotypes," Stan said, closing the door behind him. Kyle made a face and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, sitting up.

"Knew I should have paid him more than ten dollars," Kyle muttered.

"Um," Stan said, rubbing his arm. "I broke up with the Mole at lunch today."

Kyle glared harder. "After you chewed my head off because _he_ was going to break up with _you?_ Which was completely unwarranted, by the way, because you _already told me you were thinking of breaking up with him_-"

"I know, all right?" Stan interrupted, his eyebrows drawing down. "I know I overreacted. I'm sorry. But it really... bothers me, all right?" he mumbled. "Because I kind of, sort of... like you."

Kyle didn't even bat an eye. "I know."

Stan's eyes darted up to his and he gaped at him. "You _know?_"

"Of course I know. It's only the most obvious thing in the world."

Stan sputtered. "B-but!"

"What, did you think you were doing a good job of hiding it?" Kyle asked, sounding the slightest bit amused.

"Well, then why the hell didn't you ever _say_ anything!" Stan cried, pointing a melodramatic finger at him.

"Why didn't _you_ ever say anything?" Kyle shot back. "Lord knows I've given you a thousand chances."

Stan hesitated, staring at him. Did Kyle... _want_ him to hit on him? He frowned, scrutinized his face, and then decided... to hell with it. It served Kyle right for flirting with him, anyway.

He stepped away from the door and walked toward his bed, picking up speed as he went until he simply barreled into Kyle, knocking him backward until the bed. They wrestled, and Kyle twisted under him while Stan planted kisses on any part of Kyle's body he could get at between flailing limbs - his elbow, his shoulder, his navel. Stan finally caught hold of his wrists and pressed his arms into the the mattress, and his mouth against his. Kyle pressed back in an impressive display of lips and teeth and tongue. He slipped his hands out of Stan's grip pathetically easily and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him forward so that he was was sprawled over his hips while he arched up against him.

It really _didn't_ take anything to turn Kyle on, Stan reflected, and had to concede the point that the Mole had argued since they'd first started dating: Kyle was slutty. But he really didn't see a problem with this, now that he was on the receiving end. Stan gripped the hem of Kyle's shirt and liberated him of it, pulling away from his mouth to employ his own on the newly exposed skin. Kyle inhaled sharply, smirked smugly, and grabbed hold of Stan's shoulders while he sucked on his chest.

"Do'ya think it would work," Stan ventured between kisses, "if we were a couple?"

"A scientist examines every possible option before reaching a conclus- Ohgod_YES!_" he yelped and bucked.

Stan lifted his head from Kyle's bellybutton and grinned at him. "Yes?"

"Cheater," Kyle grumbled. "That's playing dirty."

"I can play dirty," Stan assured him, grinning, and then hesitated. "But. You were going to say yes. Right?"

Kyle sighed heavily. "Yes. But now the ambiance is ruined. I was going to draw it out. Can't now. Asshole."

Stan frowned. "But you're really okay with-"

"Stan, if you're always going to try to talk about your feelings whenever you sit on me and rip off my shirt, we're going to have a serious problem."

Stan scowled lightly. "This is _important_-"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle said, seizing him by the collar and yanking him down. "It'll still be important when I'm wearing a shirt. Now just shut up and kiss me."

Stan obliged.

--

Being Cartman's best friend had taught Wendy many things. Chief among them was that nothing improved a bad mood like some senseless vandalism. She chucked a rock at the glowing neon sign, breaking some of the glass and getting one of the 'd's to black out.

As she bent down to pick up another rock, she heard someone walk up behind her. Wendy stiffened a moment, then straightened again. She knew it was Cartman; no one else stepped that heavily. She chucked the rock at the sign nonchalantly and missed it by several feet.

"... What're you doing?" Cartman ventured.

"Trying to knock out the 'uddr' in 'Fuddruckers,'" she explained, picking up another rock.

"_Sweet,_" he said, picking up a rock to assist her. For several moments there was no conversation, just the sound of breaking glass. When the 'r' finally flickered and died they cheered, then cracked up. They clung to each other's arms while they laughed, and when they'd settled down a little, Cartman kissed her.

Wendy knew she had the sappiest grin on her face when he pulled away - she just didn't care. Cartman gave her an evaluating look.

"So, you... like me," he began, sounding skeptical.

"Yes," Wendy admitted.

"... _Why?_"

Wendy shrugged.

"Hmm," Cartman said. Then he smirked. "So you and Heidi got into a bitch fight over who got the supreme honor of being my ho."

She rolled her eyes. "Not exactly."

Cartman looked mildly disappointed. "Still," he said. "Still, you put a chick in the hospital for me. That's pretty hot."

Wendy's grin doubled in sappiness. Only Cartman would think assault with a weapon was romantic. Cartman glanced up at the neon 'Fuckers.' "Hey, you hungry? I'm paying."

"You're _offering?_" Wendy asked, lifting her eyebrows. "What's your angle?"

"I need to spend my profits from the dance before the cops start asking questions," he said, and she laughed. He grabbed her by the wrist. "Come on, let's go inside and ask them about their sausage," he said, smirking that way he did when he thought he was being clever. His hand slid down her wrist and he tugged her, laughing, by the hand into the restaurant.

--

Kenny sighed mournfully as he watched Butters follow after Bebe, carrying her books for her.

"I _tried_ to be gay. I really did!"

"Well, we can't all bee queer," the Mole said nonchalantly at his side, lighting a new cigarette.

"It's not fair. How did Kyle I've-got-heterosexuality-coming-out-of-my-ears Broflovski end up with a guy when _I_ didn't? _So_ unfair." Kenny seemed to realize he was talking to Stan's ex. "Er - sorry."

The Mole shrugged. "Stan's a beetch."

Kenny cracked up. "That's for sure." He sighed. "But, Kyle, I mean... it takes one stupid gay crush to make him switch teams." He brooded for a moment, then grinned hopefully. "Think you might develop a stupid gay crush on me?"

The Mole rolled his cigarette around in his mouth and seemed to consider his next words very carefully.

"I like you," he finally said. "I find you have a most amusing sense ov humor. I theenk I would enjoy smoking and talking about what an beetch God is with you, and I find you are indispensable on a mission. The fact we 'ave both died before means we can understand something about each ozzer zat no on else can. However," he said, and here he paused and took a long drag on his cigarette, "I'm not like Stan. I don't lust after straight meat. I like my men gay."

"Damn," Kenny said, propping his chin up in his hand.

"Eet eesn't so bad."

Kenny frowned at him. "Seriously. That doesn't sound like a French accent at all. That sounds like someone who's trying to fake a French accent, but has never actually heard one, so they're just mimicking someone _else's_ bad attempt at a French accent. Knock it off."

The Mole blew some smoke at him. "Non."

"And another thing. What's with the random French? It's stupid. Just say _no_."

He seemed to consider this, then broke out into a broad grin. "Non."

"Ass," Kenny said, though it was good-natured. "So, friends?"

"Yes," the Mole agreed. "I theenk so."

---

THE END


End file.
